


Just A (Jazz) Gigolo

by blackmountainbones



Series: Just a (Jazz) Gigolo [1]
Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Crack, Jazz - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Shaman - Freeform, Shaman magic, Voodoo, and i said "no no no", canon-typical assholery, critical discussion of jazz written by someone who fears jazz, girl my crack is fire, gratuitous sexualization of the musician Prince, i'm sorry Thelonious Monk, idiots to lovers, jazz jokes, my betas tried to make me go to rehab, secret crushes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 02:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones
Summary: Howard Moon is a lot of things: jazz maverick, man of action, and massive gayist. When he sees an ad for a club for men who like jazz who like men who like jazz, Howard decides to check it out on the down-low, while Vince is determined to find out Howard's secret. Shenanigans ensue.





	Just A (Jazz) Gigolo

**Author's Note:**

> The working title of this fic was "Jizz Club", which tells you everything you need to know....

Vince kneeled, silent and waiting. The wooden floor of the hallway was hard and made his knees ache. Still, he dared not move; he dared not make a sound.

Still kneeling, still silent, Vince pushed the bedroom door open a little wider, careful not to make a sound that would betray his presence here, all the while hoping to catch a better glimpse of Howard preening in the mirror.

Sure enough, Howard stood in front of Vince’s full-length mirror, admiring himself in the glass, unaware of his audience. Vince didn’t know why--his outfit was awful. He was wearing a brown tweed sportcoat, wide-wale corduroys, _and_ a roll-neck all at the same time--none of it fit quite right, either. He looked like the Beat Generation had vomited on him.

Vince bit down on a sigh. Howard had a cute pumpkin arse, but he preferred frumpy cords to anything that would actually _accentuate_ his… assets. That was why Vince was reduced to peeping on Howard as he dressed--it was the only chance he got to get a good look. God forbid the man get his pants _tailored._

It was a crime against fashion, but unfortunately, it was illegal to actually _arrest_ someone for a fashion crime. Vince had had to learn the hard way: by being arrested for false imprisonment and impersonating an officer of the law.

Nevermind that. Howard’s choice of clothing made it clear that the man was up to something. Vince crouched in the hallway and watched as Howard looked himself over in the full-length mirror once more, smoothing the lapels of his rumpled tweed jacket with a satisfied grin. He took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket, staring at it intently, as if memorizing the information.

Vince leaned forward, to see if he could catch what it said. The door creaked, and Howard jumped, shoving the piece of paper into his pocket. “Vince. I know you’re there.”

Vince stayed still. He’d learned in the jungle that predators were alerted by movement….

Howard turned away from the mirror. “Vince?”

Vince knew he was caught and stood up, making a big show of arranging his clothing. “What’re you all spiffed up for?” Vince asked. Howard was generally indifferent to fashion, and Vince was curious what had inspired him to style himself to meticulously. “You going to a poetry reading or something?”

“No, not a poetry reading,” Howard said in a self-important tone. “No, sir, Howard TJ Moon is attending a jazz club.” He smiled to himself, thinking of the advertisement he’d seen in the free paper that afternoon, folded safely into his pocket. Howard had big… plans… for this evening. He was on his way to the Squatchmo, the club for men who liked jazz who liked men who liked jazz. Howard had realized some things about himself recently, and Squatchmo seemed like the kind of place where he could meet like-minded men.

Vince twisted himself into an elaborate pose, pulling a sensual shape in his sequined jumpsuit, but Howard was careful not to let himself appreciate Vince’s lean, shiny physique too much. Howard’d been noticing Vince more often lately, ever since he had finally begun to embrace his sexuality instead of suppress it, but it was best not to think about that too much. Vince was an electro ponce, and Howard was a jazz maverick. They were fundamentally incompatible. Only one man had tried, Prince, and now he didn’t even have a name anymore, only a symbol. Howard liked his name. He didn’t want to become a symbol.

Besides, wasn’t the whole point of gay sex to be twice as manly? If one of the men was as girly as Vince, then the sex would be gayer, surely. Howard was still pretty new to gaydom, but he already knew he had a type: strong, brave men, adventurers and bullfighters, Hemingway and Coltrane. Not electro ponces, though he supposed an exception could be made for Prince. Howard was but a man who liked jazz who liked men who liked jazz, and Prince had an intimate understanding of the Spirit of Jazz, more so than any other artist post-1970. Though he had Vince to thank for introducing him to the wonders of Prince, not that Howard would ever thank him for it.

“What kind of jazz club are you going to dressed like _that_?” Vince asked.

“Just your normal, standard-regular jazz club,” Howard said. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was most of it.

“Ugh,” Vince scoffed. He should have known just by looking at him. “You should add a scarf.”

“No, Howard Moon is a simple man,” Howard said.

“Yeah, yeah. You don’t accessorize,” Vince huffed, beating Howard to the punch. He’d heard Howard say it often enough; he didn’t need to hear it again. “You should. You’d look even more like a jazz twat.”

“That’s right,” Howard said, ignoring the bait. “You won’t even be able to stalk me tonight. If you get too close, you’ll get hives.” He smirked, feeling a bit smug. Vince had developed an annoying habit of following Howard around lately, which had really put a crimp in Howard’s ability to explore his burgeoning homosexual awakening. A jazz club for men of his… persuasion… should keep Vince far, far away, and afford Howard a bit of much-needed privacy.

“I don’t _stalk_ you,” Vince said. “Stalk is a strong word.” Sure, he’d begun following Howard around, but that was only because he’d been curious about what Howard had been hiding lately. He suspected there was some correlation between the dirty jazz magazines he and Leroy’d found in the lining of Howard’s trumpet case and Howard’s uncharacteristically sneaky behavior.

Howard rolled his eyes. “If you don’t stalk me, why is it that every time I try to hang out with my other friends, you and Leroy suddenly show up?”

“I’m interested in your life,” Vince said. “It’s perfectly normal for friends to be interested in each other.” Howard’s life was especially interesting when he was trying to keep a secret, and Vince took a certain pride in his ability to discover the very things Howard most wanted to hide from him. He especially had questions about the magazines he’d found last week.

“Vince, you think everything I like is boring,” Howard reminded him. “You get allergic reactions to some of my hobbies. Like _jazz._ ”

“Ummm,” Vince said, trying to think up a suitable lie.

“Friends need to trust each other, Vince,” Howard said enigmatically as he left the room. “Don’t wait up for me, tonight.”

“‘Don’t wait up for me’, my arse,” Vince grumbled, already aggressively punching a message to Leroy into his mobile. Since when did Howard Moon stay out past a decent hour? He liked to make the 8am Jazzercise class, which meant Howard was usually home by ten--well before Vince went out most nights.

No, Howard Moon was certainly up to something. And Vince Noir was determined to find out _what_.

 

 

Howard double-checked the address, only to discover he was indeed in the right place.

From the outside, the club looked like any other jazz club: dark windows and red bricks. On the inside, though, it was more than just your typical jazz joint--it was a place where male jazz enthusiasts who liked other men could find other men who liked men who liked jazz.

Howard had no idea what he was doing here. Actually, no, that was a lie--Howard knew exactly what he was doing here. Howard, too, was a man who liked jazz who liked men who liked jazz. At the age of 32, Howard had finally figured out why he’d never had much success with women and was anxious to make up for lost time.

“C’mon in, sonny,” the bouncer said, and flashed a smile that was half-rotten and half-gold. He opened the door, leering in a way that made Howard feel positively indecent.

Howard surreptitiously smoothed his clothing to make sure his roll-neck was rolled all the way up his neck and that his jacket was properly buttoned. The quick pat-down revealed no anomalies, and so Howard took a deep breath and stepped inside.

 

 

“I’m tellin’ you Naboo, Howard is up to something!” Vince was trying to get through to the shaman and his familiar, but their glazed-over expressions did not change. They’d each eaten four hash brownies, and Vince was finding it hard to convince his magical roommates to use their magical powers to help Vince suss out where Howard had gone.

Also, Naboo and Bollo seemed to prefer Howard when he wasn’t there, and therefore didn’t seem much inclined to help Vince look for him. Vince didn’t know what Howard had planned, but he already knew it was something stupid, possibly dangerous.

“He _always_ looks like he’s up to something. It’s his small, shifty eyes,” Naboo said. He did look not at all concerned, though, Vince considered, it could be because Bollo was an ape, and the nuances of human emotion were harder to see on the face of a gorilla.

“Well, _yeah_ , but this time, he really _is_ up to something,” Vince insisted. “He’s wearing a rollneck, tweed, and corduroy all in the same outfit.” Howard had been more secretive than usual lately, and now he was going to a _jazz club,_  just after Vince and Leroy had found _those_ jazz magazines in the lining of Howard’s trumpet case. Vince was starting to put two and two together, and it all added up to no good.

However, neither of Vince’s flatmates seemed to share his sense of urgency in the matter. Naboo and Bollo sat on the couch, idly flicking through channels on the telly, still stoned.

“Howard always look like that,” Bollo said dismissively. He didn’t even bother to look away from the screen.

“No one who wears cords, tweed, and a roll-neck to a jazz club has innocent intentions,” Vince insisted. Vince knew the power of fashion to communicate intentions. “No--they’re looking for one thing, and one thing only: to tease and titillate the jazz people.”

“Why do you care so much if some jazz maverick sticks his todger in Howard?” Naboo wondered aloud.

Vince glared. “Howard’s an _innocent._  We have to protect him!”

“Bollo not care about what Howard put in his bum.”

“Look, if you care so much, go call Leroy or something,” Naboo said while reaching for his hookah. “He always helps you stalk Howard. Bollo and me have better things to do that follow Howard around all night.”

“Like eat more hash brownies,” Bollo agreed.

“Again, _stalk_ is a strong word,” Vince repeated. “We just…. follow him around.” Stalking and following were not same thing.

Naboo and Bollo looked unconvinced.

“C’mon, your shaman powers would make this so much easier,” Vince whinged. “He’s had a head start, how am I supposed to find him now?”

Naboo reached into his robe and handed Vince an amulet with a large brown stone. “Look, just use this. It’s like Shaman GPS. The closer you get to Howard, the louder it will scat,” Naboo explained.

“Ugh, I’m going to get hives from this, aren’t I?” Vince asked. He crossed his eyes at the accursed object.

“Probably,” Naboo admitted. He’d been so stoned he’d forgotten all about Vince’s allergies, but it seemed a dick move to try and take the amulet back, especially since he had no other means of locating Howard at his disposal. “Gloves might not be a bad idea.” Naboo warned, already regretting giving Vince the amulet, but since he didn’t want to get any more involved with the weird homoerotic tension between his two human roommates than necessary, he figured it was a risk he had to take.

It was bad enough to live in an apartment where everything stank with unconsummated homoerotic longing, Naboo thought. He didn’t want to be there when the two idiot humans figured it out. He held out the amulet, nudging Vince into grudgingly accepting the tacky thing.

Vince held the amulet by the chain, careful not to make contact with the scatting stone, and headed to the bedroom to find his gloves and call Leroy with the same sense of urgency Vince usually reserved for Topshop sales. This couldn’t wait: Howard could be getting bummed silly right now by a jazz geezer who only wanted a piece of his young pumpkin arse.

 

 

The club was dark and dimly-lit. It took Howard’s eyes a few minutes to adjust to the internal gloom. In the meantime, he stumbled half-blindly to the bar, hoping a pint of ale would help calm his nerves.

The bartender was a whip-thin man who appeared to be in his 60s and wore tiny glasses and a sportcoat in a pristine tweed. He pulled the pint Howard ordered with the fastidious economy of motion of a man who has spent his entire life doing exactly one thing, and learnt to do it well.

By now, Howard’s eyes had adjusted somewhat, and he noticed that there were several men in the room, gathered into small groups. Most of the men appear older, but they all had the same sort of shambling jazz-maverick look that Howard recognized, and Howard, who had spent much of his young life as a jazz outcast amongst his pop-obsessed peers, was momentarily excited to have finally found himself amongst like-minded men.

Howard perched on a stool and awkwardly drank his pint. None of the men seemed to pay him any mind, engrossed, no doubt, in important, deep conversation about all manner of jazz and jazz-related topics. Howard wondered if he should have brought along Lester Corncrake or one of the old guys who attend his regular jazzercize classes for moral support, but he quickly dismissed the idea. After all, he’d come here to pull… he didn’t want any of his potential jazz-enthusiast suitors to get the wrong idea and think he was _taken_. 

“It’s your first time, isn’t it,” the skinny bartender said in a surprisingly reedy voice. Howard wondered if perhaps the man had a secret life as a clarinetist.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “You’ve felt a craving for the passion of jazz for a long time now,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

Howard nodded and took another sip of ale. “I’ve had the Spirit of Jazz inside me. I know what it’s like, to be so full of the Jazz that there’s no room for anything else.”

The bartender gave him and enigmatic look, then nodded. “Perhaps you belong here, after all.”

A dapper older man was approaching the bar. He was portly and well-fed, though in a distinguished rather than a gluttonous way, resembling a saxophone more than a tuba. He gave Howard a once-over, nodding in approval. “Welcome, young man, to the Squatchmo. My name is Douglas, and I am one of the patrons of this fine establishment,” he introduced himself, offering a hand for Howard to shake.

Howard clasped it firmly and shook. “Um, I’m Howard. Nice to meet another, um, jazz enthusiast.”

“We are a dying breed,” Douglas agreed as he gave Howard another appraising once-over. Howard, who was used to being invisible and sexless, was uncomfortable with the other man’s blatant assessment of Howard as a potential sexual partner. He crossed his arms and slumped on his stool, body language screaming _don’t touch me!_ as he wondered self-consciously if he was rushing into this whole gay thing a little too quickly.

Douglas ignored his fidgeting, and continued talking as the bartender served his drink. “It’s rare that we see someone so youthful in these parts. “ He scrutinized Howard’s features. “How old are you? 45?”

“I’m 32,” Howard informed him.

Douglas did not look convinced. “Now, Howard, there’s no need to lie about your age. We’re all mature men here, with mature tastes.” He grabbed his drink and nudged Howard over the the small group of men sitting in a booth near the stage.

“But… I really _am_ 32…” Howard insisted in a small voice, letting himself be herded over to the table where three men sat nursing drinks.

Two of the men were ancient, older even than Lester Corncrake. One was withered and bowed; the other tall and broad. They were named Ian and Allan, and both had thinning white hair and voices like string instruments: the big one had a deep voice that reminded Howard of a standing bass, and the smaller man’s voice was high-pitched and melodic, like a violin.

The third man blared like a trumpet and was the youngest of them all. He said his name was Winston, and appeared to be in his early 40s as his hair was still thick and mostly brown, although he had a streak of grey at the at the top. He was opinionated, and appeared to be leading the group in an analysis of Thelonious Monk’s various recordings of the little-known composition “Just A Gigolo”.

Normally, Howard would have been overjoyed to be in a conversation about jazz. But even Howard’s legendary patience was tried by spending fifteen minutes arguing over the same two-minute fragment of an obscure recording by Thelonious Monk.

“I’m tellin’ you, Thelonious Monk is--” Douglas began.

“Thelonious Monk? More like felonius and drunk,” Ian said. “He was an elephant on the keyboard, committing crimes against jazz.”

“Monk’s style was raw and powerful. You are stuck in the big band era,” Winston said. “You could never appreciate his style. It’s too unpredictable. You fear it.”

These were real jazz purists, Howard realized as he listened to the men debate, not the type to listen to jazz fusion like the Weather Report, or open their minds to the melodies of Prince. Howard felt suddenly out-of-place. Howard Moon was the open-minded sort, not the type of man to discriminate against good jazz, not because of era, and especially not because of sub-genre. He felt this represented a fundamental difference between himself and these stodgy, tweedy men who had spent so long playing the same instrument they’d begun to resemble one.

Absently, Howard wished Vince was here. Vince had absolutely appalling taste in music, but he’d opened Howard’s ears to some new sounds, mostly 80s electro-funk. Howard had been developing an appreciation of Prince lately, but now didn’t seem an appropriate time to discuss Prince’s underappreciated Sign of the Times and its jazz-funk throwback riffs. It was unfortunate, considering he’d practiced his oration in the mirror for two hours in preparation.

“Let us inquire of our young friend here,” Douglas said, turning to Howard. “What do you think of Thelonious Monk?”

“He was a powerful and brave performer, unafraid to push boundaries. He had an intimate understanding of the Spirit of Jazz,” Howard said confidently. After all, the Spirit of Jazz himself had told Howard as much.

The four men nodded thoughtfully, and Howard felt relieved, like he’d passed an important test.

“You speak of the Spirit of Jazz like a true connoisseur,” Douglas said. 

“Many men have walked through these doors, claiming to know of the Spirit of Jazz,” Winston chimed in. “Every once in a while, a man walks in who already knows what it is like to have the jazz inside him.”

“You have come to the right place,” Allan said. “We are all intimately acquainted with the Spirit of Jazz.”

“Tell us, young Howard, what you know of the Spirit of Jazz,” Ian implored.

“Well, he’s a man,” Howard said helpfully. “He wears dreadlocks and a voodoo mask. When he gets inside of you, he really gets _inside_ of you.”

The four men regarded one another skeptically. Howard was starting to get a bad feeling about his decision to spend the night in a jazz club for men who liked jazz who liked men who liked jazz.

“Voodoo, you say?” remarked Ian, drawing the straw in his drink like a bow.

“Voodoo,” Howard repeated. “It’s a very important part of the jazz tradition. Many musicians made a pact with the Spirit of Jazz.” The men across the table regarded Howard curiously, so he elaborated. “I should know. I was one of them. I know what it’s like to have the Spirit of Jazz so far up inside you, you don’t know where the jazz ends and you begin.”

The two old men, Allan and Ian, exchanged a dubious glance. The fat one, Allan, said, “You’ve had the Spirit of Jazz inside you?”

“In every way,” Howard said, earning him another round of dubious looks.

“Howard,” Winston said, “I feel obliged to inform you that the spirit of jazz is figurative.”

“And also, voodoo isn’t real,” Douglas said, looking at Howard with the kind of expression one reserved for dealing with the delusional and deranged.

“Oh, no, voodoo is very real. You see, once I had a rare jazz record with the soul of Howlin’ Jimmy Johnson inside it, and my best mate, who’s allergic to jazz, ate some of it. We had to use voodoo to save him! My friend Naboo, he’s a shaman, had to shrink me down in a voodoo ritual…”

“Oh,” Hubert said, making a gesture that clearly said _this bloke’s nutters_ to his friends.

“It’s white boys like you who are ruining jazz music today, appropriating things like voodoo from black culture,” complained Ian, the short and stooped old man. “You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re English. You already have enough culture, you don’t need to colonize theirs too.”

“I wasn’t trying to appropriate, no sir. Not Howard Moon…”

“But you did,” grinned Winston. “And it is a grievous offence indeed.”

“But voodoo and jazz--” Howard started.

“Do not speak of voodoo, you filthy colonist!” Douglas shouted.

“Order! Order!” Ian exclaimed, slamming his stein of beer onto the table like a gavel. “We heretofore exile you from the Squatchmo jazz club for men who like jazz who like men who like jazz.”

“For life, with no chance of reinstatement.”

“You are being ostracized, Howard Moon, for your cultural insensitivity!”

“Out with you, you colonialist bastard!”

 

 

And thus Howard was tugged back into the street by the same bartender who had leered him up and down. The bouncer tossed him into the alley, and Howard almost collided with Vince, who’d been waiting for him to be kicked out.

“God, why is it always a roomful of white wankers trying to say what jazz is and what jazz isn’t,” Howard fumed. “I’d take them more seriously if there’d been one black man in there.”

“Huh?” Vince said, peeking out from behind the dumpster.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Howard asked accusingly. Vince was the last person he wanted to witness this particular shame. “Shouldn’t you be breaking out in hives just being this close to a jazz club?”

“There’s no live music tonight. I can’t get hives unless the jazz touches me.” Vince explained He narrowed his eyes at Howard as another thought occurred to him. “You haven’t had contact with the Spirit of Jazz tonight, have you?”

“What? No. Don’t be ridiculous.” Howard grimaced. “The Spirit of Jazz would never go there. They don’t even believe in voodoo.” Voodoo was an important part of the jazz tradition, and Howard was appalled that so few men who liked jazz who liked men who liked jazz were willing to acknowledge that fact.

“Good,” Vince sighed, relieved. “I want to know what kind of precautions we’ll need to take.”

Howard was confused. “What precautions? What are you on about, Vince?” Howard wasn’t in the mood to be drawn into one of Vince’s schemes.

“You know, sexual ones,” Vince said.

“And why are sexual precautions relevant to our situation again?” Howard’s head was starting to ache. He rubbed it, wondering absently whether or not he had managed to hit it when the bouncer’d tossed him into the alley.

“Well, everyone knows what kind of club the Squatchmo is,” Vince said. “They advertise in the free newspaper. Something about men who like jazz who like men who like jazz.”

Howard turned red and shoved his hands in his pockets. “If you know what kind of club this is, what are you even doing here? You don’t even like jazz, much less men who like jazz.”

“Me ‘n Leroy followed you,” Vince admitted, curling a lock of his hair around his finger. Unfortunately, Leroy had declined to hide in the filthy alley to help Vince accost Howard when he left the bar. He’d flashed Vince a pitying grin and said something enigmatic about giving Vince and Howard some space to work things out for themselves. “We had a locket that scatted louder the closer we got to you, but I think I dropped it in the trash.” Vince kicked at a pile of overflowing binbags, scowling. Naboo was gonna be pissed about that...

“A locket?” Howard asked.

“Yeah, some sort of Shaman GPS amulet Naboo gave us,” Vince explained.

“What the hell Vince? Don’t you and Leroy do anything when you hang out that ISN’T stalking me?” Howard asked angrily. His trip to the jazz joint was meant to be _private_ , but Vince couldn’t help himself and had had to investigate. Typical Vince.

Vince hadn’t meant to say anything, but he blurted it out all at once. “Why did you go there?” Immediately after he said it, he clapped his hands over his mouth. He couldn’t stop the flow of words, but at least he was able to muffle it a bit. “I mean, if you were curious… you could just have asked me.”

Howard, startled, seemed to understand more than Vince expected him to. He did an about-face there on the sidewalk. “Oh? I could have asked you… what exactly?”

Vince took his hands off of his mouth, figuring he might as well tell the truth this time. “If you were curious about losing your virginity and all, is what I meant.”

“Are you insinuating that I should have asked _you_ to bum _me_ for the first time?” Howard asked. He’d considered it, but based on experience, had assumed Vince would laugh at him if he had dared broach the topic. Besides, there was the fundamental incompatibility between men of jazz and electro poofs to consider...

“I don’t know what that word means,” Vince admitted, “but the rest, I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Howard said, on the verge of histrionics. “Losing my virginity to someone who ‘wouldn’t mind’.” It was bad enough that Vince was offering to take his virginity; Howard was certain the twit had discovered his inconvenient crush and was taking the piss. “No, sir, that’s not for Howard Moon. I am a complex man; I need a little more romance than ‘I wouldn’t mind’ if I’m going to cross the physical boundary with _anyone._ ”

“You’re my friend. Friends can love each other. At least, I love you,” Vince said gently.

Howard froze. Vince literally never said he loved Howard. Both times Howard had confessed his love for Vince, Vince hadn’t bothered to return his sentiments, and had simply laughed him off. He was certain it was a joke, yet Vince’s expression was completely serious. Even his eyes, which normally flickered with mischief, were somber.

“I’m just saying,” Vince continued, his voice still soft. “Would it really be so bad as all that?” Again, his earnestness caught Howard off-guard: he’d been expecting Vince to shout or act disgusted, and here he was, seemingly seriously asking Howard to go to bed.

“It’s not like I’m not still a virgin, anyway,” Howard griped, ignoring the inconvenient pang of emotion. He was still a bit miffed about that fact that he’d been the youngest man in the club by a dozen years and still hadn’t managed to pull. Maybe Naboo was right when he’d said that big men with small eyes were unsettling to look at.

He’d been banned for life from the jazz club for men who liked men who liked jazz by the other men who liked jazz who liked men who liked jazz, which had been humiliating unto itself. And when he’d failed to get off and been booted from the club, Vince had been outside, waiting for him with questions that made him uncomfortable to think about. Howard felt a sudden longing for home, where he could eat ice cream in bed and feel sorry for himself in peace.

He brushed Vince off and continued walking back to the flat, but Vince kept clopping along after him in his platform boots. “It’s not so bad to be a virgin, is it, Howard? Some people might respect that about you.”

Howard huffed. Vince hadn’t even bothered to lower his voice, and a group of passerby gave them a curious look. Howard snarled at them, and they hurried along down the street. “Most people just think it’s pathetic.”

Vince kept clopping along behind him. “I don’t think it’s pathetic. It’s kind of… romantic.” He thought so, at least. He hadn’t had the patience to hold onto his virginity, but the experience had been kind of anticlimactic. Howard deserved a memorable introduction to the world of carnal delights, and for some reason, Vince cared about that.

Vince clopped without saying anything for a few paces, then continued. “Like what would it feel like, to be the object of all that pent-up desire?” he asked philosophically. He’d considered it more than once, more often than ever since he’d begun to investigate Howard’s secret.

“Don’t even start. You wouldn’t be able to handle it,” Howard groaned. “You’re too shallow to appreciate the depth of my… depths.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a pretentious twat?” Vince griped. He’d been trying to tell Howard _something_ but of course Howard’s paranoia and self-loathing had twisted Vince’s words all up. “Cos I’m tellin’ you now, for the record. And I may not exactly be packing, but I’ve certainly got enough to thoroughly explore the depths of your _depths._ ”

Howard blanched. He’d naively failed to consider the terrible entendre before he’d spoken, and of course Vince had _gone there_.  “I can’t help being a pretentious twat any more than you can help being a glam-rock poofter. Now stop making fun of me and leave me alone.” He’d had enough of Vince teasing him about his virginity. Howard had been patient and let Vince have his fun, but trying to manipulate Howard into asking him to take his virginity was going too far, even for Vince. 

“I wasn’t tryna make fun of you,” Vince said quietly. Trying to keep Howard from freaking out was harder than he expected. “I don’t care what you’re into. Well, maybe a little, but--”

Howard froze, unsure what Vince meant by that. “What?”

“I don’t care if you’re queer,” Vince repeated. He swallowed, and tried to figure out how to say what he had to say. His palms were sweating, and he wiped them on his thighs, not caring if he left marks. “But I do care that you’re getting off with blokes that _aren’t_ me.”

“Why would you care about that?” First Vince had said he loved Howard. Then he’d insinuated that he wanted to take Howard’s virginity. _Now_ he was saying he didn’t want Howard to get off with anyone but him. It was a lot to take in all at once, and Howard was confused.

“Because I’ve had a crush on you since… I don’t even remember when, you nonce!” Vince cried, rolling his eyes. “But you always had some kind of weird obsession with a woman, so I thought you were straight, but then you were gay, but then you weren’t, and now you are, so I feel like I should tell you before you change your mind and you aren’t again…”

Howard flushed and shoved his hands in his pockets awkwardly, still unsure what, exactly, he was supposed to do with that information. Usually, he would just suppress it, but that didn’t seem to be an appropriate response, considering the circumstances...

“Say something!” Vince demanded.

“I don’t rightly know _what_ to say,” Howard said honestly. “I only just realized I was gay a couple of weeks ago. To be honest, I expected to ease into homosexuality slowly, like Charlie Parker and his heroin habit.” He ran his hand through his hair, mussing it up even more. “This is all new to me, and it’s all happening at once.”

Nevermind that he’d had certain recurring… thoughts… about Vince over the years. Straight men had those kinds of thoughts about Vince all the time, and Howard had assumed he would grow out of those… urges… as he embraced his homosexuality. He hadn’t been gay long, but Howard had a type, and Vince wasn’t exactly it.

Vince rolled his eyes. “Howard, your party was six months ago,” he pointed out. “You yelled your conversion to gaydom from the rooftops.”

Howard glared. He didn’t like to be reminded of the kiss on the rooftop--he’d been a bit hasty to proclaim his sexual awakening, although further consideration of that matter had proved he’d been right. “You know what I mean! Anyway, up until a few minutes ago, I was pretty sure that I only liked men who like men who like jazz. I mean, I never considered an electro ponce.”

“You considered _me_ once. Six months ago. At your birthday party,” Vince reminded him. “And then there was the thing with the life-size Prince poster last month.”

“Prince is underappreciated for his contributions to jazz-funk. He’s discriminated against because of the general bad taste that dominated 80s pop culture,” Howard bluffed, flushing. So he had considered the sexual potential of both Prince and Vince not a few times, but Howard thought it prudent not to mention that. “And we kissed, yeah, but that was under threat of decapitation. I’m not sure it counts.”

“Howard,” Vince said, impatient.

Howard tried desperately to change the subject. “Everything is very confusing for me right now. I think I need some tea, and maybe then I’ll be able to come at it with a clear head.”

Vince gave him a pitying look. “You don’t need tea. You’ve been drinking tea your whole life and it still hasn’t gotten you shagged.” He approached Howard. “What you need is sex with a penis.”

“I have a penis,” Howard said. “Technically, I think any sex I have will be with a penis.”

“No, I meant, _my penis!_ ” Vince shouted, garnering them a strange look from some passerby, which made Howard flush harder, though Vince resolutely ignored the curious onlookers and kept talking. “God. Howard, you’re supposed to be the smart one between us. Why do I have to spell it all out for you? Look, I’m your friend, I go both ways, we already have a deep and meaningful relationship, and I’ve had a crush on you forever. What more could you want for your first time?”

What more, indeed, Howard wondered as Vince’s arm snaked around his middle. Briefly, he realized he was supposed to be thinking of reasons this was a bad idea, but then Vince kissed him, and he thought no more.

It was different from the roof. This time, Vince’s lips parted gently for him, and Howard was able to slip him a bit of tongue. It was warm, and wet, and made Howard _moan_. Vince must have felt the same way--he moaned back, his tongue darting in between Howard’s teeth to lick the roof of his mouth.

Howard’s long-repressed homosexuality became _un_ repressed all at once. He hadn’t been aware until this moment how much of himself he’d kept under lock and key until Vince’s tongue stole into his mouth; he felt something in him _burst._ His body, which had always felt too big, too long, cumbersome, suddenly fit him properly, and Howard suspected that Vince’s arms around his waist had something to do with that.

The sensation made Howard so keen his mouth went slack and wide, enough to cover Vince’s lips with his saliva before Vince nudged his jaw into the proper position with his hands: open enough to let their tongues tangle, but not so wide as to be able to bite his face off. He was light-headed, a bit woozy with the way all the blood in his body had suddenly rushed between his legs; his legs buckled a bit, but Vince caught him, not even swaying on his ridiculous platforms when Howard slumped against him.

He could feel Vince smiling into the kiss, and it made Howard smile too. Maybe, he considered, his first time would be worth waiting for...

Vince broke the kiss suddenly. He was breathing hard, his arms trembling around Howard’s torso. “I should probably get you in bed for a proper bumming,” he thought aloud. It was a shame to stop now, but the onlookers from earlier were watching the two men a bit too voyeuristically. Vince thought that one or two of them might have been taking pictures, and as flattering as he thought it might be, losing your virginity should be a private matter.

Howard nodded in agreement, so wracked with aftershocks of the kiss he did not trust himself to speak. His moustache was all rumpled and wet-looking. Just looking at it made Vince’s lips prickle.

He reached out to smooth Howard’s moustache with his thumb. Howard’s eyes crinkled, and Vince giggled when he pursed his lips to press a kiss to Vince’s thumb. “Let’s go,” Vince murmured. 

He stole a quick kiss then laced his fingers in-between Howards. Hand-in-hand, they walked close enough for the fabric of their jackets to rasp against the other’s as they walked, building up static--and sexual tension--the whole way home.

 

 

They made it through the front door and up the stairs before Vince, overcome with passion, snogged Howard against the kitchen counter.

At that moment, Naboo happened to walk into the kitchen, intending to help himself to the weed muffins he and Bollo had baked that morning, which were cooling on the counter. He stopped short at the scene that greeted him. “Ew.”

Bollo’s head popped out of his bedroom. “What?”

“Just our flatmates being homoerotic with each other again,” Naboo said, sounding resigned. He edged past the embracing couple and made off down the hall with his pan of muffins before Vince and Howard started leaking… fluids… everywhere. The thought was so appalling it didn’t bear considering, and he quickly made his way back to the sanctity of Bollo’s room, where they would turn the music up real loud and pretend their roommates were not getting off on each other.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much that could be done for the _smell_. Not that either Vince or Howard cared. They were too far up each other’s bums to notice.

Naboo sighed, removing a blunt from one of his many wizard pockets. Hopefully, the smell of kush would be enough to cover that of semen and ballbag. “It’s not safe out there, Bollo. Let’s get high.” Naboo, already traumatized, desperately hoped that he had enough weed to get he and Bollo so stoned they wouldn’t be able to remember that they were sharing an apartment with two men who were about to unleash twenty years’ worth of homosexual tension.

A long, quavering moan sounded from the kitchen. Naboo shuddered and lit the blunt--it was starting already.

**Author's Note:**

> When researching jazz for this fic, I discovered there is classic jazz standard called "Just A Gigolo", hence the name of the fic.
> 
> The jazz club for men who like jazz who like men who like jazz was originally supposed to be called "Satchmo" after Louis Armstrong. I typo'd "Squatchmo" and it amused me so much I decided to change the name.
> 
> I'm working on a NSFW sequel to this cracksterpiece. As always, comments and kudos feed the muse and keep fic coming! And, according to my therapist, also my tragic and deep-seated need for validation.


End file.
